* * *
There was nothing she hated more than having her ideas contested. She always had to have her way.
“What’s a masque?” Sabine asked.
“It’s a performance,” Julian interjected, “in which all the important ladies of the court will be a part. Lady Marie intends to spare no expense.” Rising to his feet, he retrieved sheets of paper and distributed them to the group. “I will be playing the devil,” he said, handing me a page. “Genny will play Vice and Cécile will play Virtue.”
I scanned the pages, my interest in the idea briefly pushing away Thibault’s compulsion. But only for a moment. The lively murmurs of the group buzzed like a hive of bees, but I didn’t join in. All I could think about was how I didn’t have time for this. I rubbed my temples with my fingers, but nothing seemed to reduce the tension in my skull.
“Attention, attention!” my mother trilled. “I also have one more announcement to make.”
Conversation ceased and heads swiveled back around, everyone curious about what else Genevieve might have up her sleeve. Even once she had our attention, she took her time, slowly smoothing the lace overlay of her dress while she fed off our anticipation. “This is bittersweet,” she finally whispered.
The whole company leaned forward.
“I…” She hesitated, the corners of her mouth tipping slightly downwards. “I’ve decided that the Regent’s court masque will be my final performance.”
I felt my mouth drop open. No one in the room spoke a word, such was our collective astonishment. Genevieve, retire?
“Years ago,” she continued, reveling in our shock, “I made the decision to put my career ahead of my family. I know you all, as artists, can understand why I made the decision, and it has been a rare moment I’ve had cause to regret it.”
Her words stung, undoing all the goodwill from the night prior I’d barely realized had built up. I remembered all too clearly the number of times I’d sat waiting for her on the lane leading toward our farm on the day of a promised visit. A visit that only rarely materialized.
Before I’d moved to Trianon, I’d always made excuses for her, imagining her reluctantly prioritizing her performances – when in her heart, she really wanted to be visiting me. I knew better, but even so, her ability to manipulate my emotions never seemed to diminish. Fred was right: I was an idiot. My cup hit the saucer with a sharp click, and she glanced my direction.
“But,” she said, her eyes not moving from me, “I feel that I have reached the peak of my career. I have sung all the great roles and performed for all the most powerful and influential people on the Isle. There is nothing more I can achieve onstage, and I would rather retire now than witness my own decline.”
“You can’t!”
Everyone in the room jumped and turned to look at Julian, who was on his feet, face drained of color. “You can’t leave!”
My mother’s brow creased. “I won’t be leaving, darling. I will merely be stepping off the stage so that I can focus on Cécile’s career. It is time for her portrait to be hung on these walls.”
Julian rounded on me, his expression filled with venom. “This is your fault. Your coming to Trianon ruined everything. I wish you had died in Courville.”
I flinched, half expecting him to attack me, but instead he stormed out of the room.
“Julian, darling! Wait.” My mother scampered to her feet and ran after him.
Everyone turned to look at me. “I didn’t know,” I said, holding up my hands. “I am as shocked as the rest of you.”
Half a dozen conversations ensued, everyone interrupting each other as they speculated about whether Julian would forgive my mother, why she’d really decided to retire, and what the Regent’s masque would be like. I said nothing, only stared down at the papers in my hand. My head began to steadily pound as though I were being punished for my momentary distraction, the pain making the words on the page blur. The ache beat in a rhythm that seemed to repeat the words “find her” over and over again. Climbing to my feet, I hurried out into the corridor, then around the corner until I stood in the stage wings.
From the pocket of my dress, I withdrew the grimoire, the feel of its repulsive cover somehow soothing my head. Opening the clasp, I flipped through the spells. Despite its current unhelpfulness, it felt good to have it back in my possession once more. Glancing around to make sure I was alone, I focused my attention on Tristan. He seemed so far away, the knot of emotion I associated with him small compared to how it had felt when I was in Trollus, but I could still sense his pain and anger.
Anger at you.
“You all right?”
I turned to see Sabine.
“Your dream is coming true. Lead soprano for the most famous opera house on the Isle.” Her smile was half-hearted. “Or at least, what used to be your dream.”
It still was, and that was what made it so hard, because I had to willfully push it aside. It was a dream that needed to remain that way. “It’s a demanding position. I don’t have time for it, and the last thing I need is my mother turning her full attention on me.” But declining wasn’t an option. She had a plan in her mind, and if I disrupted it, she’d send me back to the Hollow in an instant. She’d rather see her plans destroyed than ever consider a compromise.
Sabine hesitated, then held out a glass of what looked like brandy. “You look like you need this. For fortitude.”
“Thanks.” I accepted the glass, although the thought of drinking it turned my stomach.
“Your mother’s given me a list of tasks that I need to get started on,” she said. “But maybe we can meet after and you can tell me what happened.”
“I’ll come find you,” I said. But instead of leaving, she stood watching me, a faint look of expectation on her face. “You should get to work on your list,” I said. “Julian’s reaction will have put her in a foul mood.”
“Right.” She hesitated for a heartbeat longer, and then left me alone. Pressing my forehead against the coolness of the wall, I took a deep breath. Would nothing ever go right for me again? Problem after cursed problem seemed to stack up every which way I turned, and I had no solution to any of them. I didn’t even know where to begin looking for solutions.
And then I got handed something I actually wanted – a chance I’d longed for most of my life – and I couldn’t even bear to be happy about it. What did it matter if I were a star soprano when the man I loved was being tortured at the hands of his father. When I’d locked myself into a binding promise to find a five century-old witch with a grudge. When my brother was threatening to find a way to starve my friends caught in Trollus…
Part of me had felt a thrill of excitement when my mother had made her announcement, because singing is what I’d always wanted to do. I loved it so, so, so much. But how dare I even consider such a life when so much of what mattered to me was in danger?
Imagine what your life would have been like if you’d never gone to Trollus…
I shoved the thought away. “Imagine what you wouldn’t have if you hadn’t gone,” I hissed at myself. “Imagine who you wouldn’t know. Imagine who you wouldn’t love.” But my words were cold comfort.
* * *
Back in the foyer, everyone was pretending to be reading the script, but I could see the furtive glances cast between the sullen and red-eyed Julian and the tight-faced Genevieve. Nothing would get done until the two of them reconciled, and I needed to be out and away from here looking for Anushka.
Squaring my shoulders, I approached Julian. “You can’t really believe she means to go through with it,” I said, leaning against the wall next to him.
He silently crossed his arms, eyes fixed on the floor.
“It’s probably only a ploy to increase the excitement over the masque. Genevieve de Troyes’ final performance,” I said, lowering my voice in mimicry of our stage manager. “Six months from now, she’ll probably be opening some grand new opera from the continent, and I’ll be back as her understudy.�
��
Julian snorted softly, unconvinced.
Nibbling on my lip, I stared into the depths of the brandy I still held. “She would have told you before anyone else if she really meant it,” I said. “She confides so much in you – more than even me, and I’m her daughter. The reason she’s upset is probably because she thought you’d see through to the heart of her little plot.”
“Why should she confide in you?” he muttered. “She hardly knows you to trust you.”
My spine stiffened, and I bit down on a retort that the distance between us was far more her choice than mine. But doing so would not help speed this process along. “I know,” I said instead. “I’m envious of you in that.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and I knew my ploy had worked. And frankly, everything I’d said felt true. I didn’t believe for a second that my mother had really decided to give up her career in favor of mine – she needed to be onstage like she needed air.
“Envy is unbecoming.” He plucked the glass out of my hand. “But I’ll take your peace offering. For now.” He swallowed the brandy with one gulp and grimaced. “My God, where did you get that? Tastes like it has been sitting behind a plant pot for a month.”
“I…” But before I could finish, a draft rushed through the room, and the dregs of the brandy beaded together, rising up the sides of the glass to perch on the rim. Julian’s eyes went blank for instant, and when they refocused, they were confused.
“I don’t really know why I care,” he said, then frowned. “Cared. What matters is asses in seats. No one wants to see an old woman playing a young woman’s part. Truthfully, I’m glad she decided to retire. It would have been embarrassing to watch her fight her eventual decline. This is our livelihood, and having you star will put money in our pockets.” He set the glass on the table, and the beads of brandy collapsed inward, pooling at the bottom once more.
I opened my mouth and then closed it. There was nothing in Julian’s expression or tone to suggest he intended his words to hurt. They were emotionless. Cool. Logical. Strangely out of character.
I picked up the discarded glass and sniffed it, a faintly herbal smell filling my nostrils along with the charge of something more. My skin prickled and my headache faded, because a charlatan couldn’t have made this potion.
This was magic; and what’s more, the spell had been intended for me.
Ten
Cécile
I found Sabine in the storeroom filled with costumes. At the sound of my footsteps, she turned, and I caught the bright glow of expectation in her eyes. It faded quickly at the sight of my expression.
“Julian took it upon himself to drink the brandy you gave me,” I said. “Not an entirely surprising thing for him to do; what made it interesting was what happened to him afterward.”
Sabine paled.
“I think we’ll skip the part where you deny the very obvious fact there was a potion in that brandy,” I said, my voice shaking with anger. “And past the part where you obviously intended to magic me out of love with my husband. Let’s go straight to the point where you explain to me why, knowing that I’ve spent months hunting for witches who could help me, you decided to keep the fact you’d found one a secret?”
“I wasn’t keeping it from you,” she blurted out. “I only met her last night.”
“And instead of telling me straight away, you decided to take advantage of the information yourself? Anything else you’ve been keeping from me?” Had she lied to me all along?
“No!” She reached for my hand, but I stepped back, crossing my arms. “I only wanted to help you. To give you a chance to live…”
“By stealing away the most precious thing in my life?” I snarled out the words. “You want to know where Chris and I were last night? We went to see the troll king. And he tortured Tristan in front of me until I gave my word I’d find the witch for him. A binding promise. I could no sooner turn from this path now than an addict from her absinthe.”
Sabine’s face crumbled and she pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Cécile. I’m so sorry.”
“Spare me,” I said, furious that Tristan would suffer so much for humanity, and this was how he was repaid. “Tell me the name of the witch and where to find her.”
“I can take you to her myself.”
Her voice was desperate with the need to make amends, but what she’d tried to do to me wasn’t something I’d forgive lightly. “So you can sabotage me further?” I shook my head. “I’ll go with Chris. At least him I can trust.”
Tears flooded down Sabine’s cheeks. “You know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“I thought I knew that,” I said. “Tell me her name.”
Her breath hitched. “They call her La Voisin – the neighbor. She’s got a shop in Pigalle.”
The words sang through me; and for a moment, they chased away my anger, fear, and even my love for Tristan in order to make room for the single-minded purpose of my hunt. I clenched my teeth and dug my nails into my palms to regain control of the compulsion, but it was like trying to stop a wave with my bare hands. “Let’s hope she can help me, and some good might come from this.”
* * *
Chris and I walked swiftly through the narrow and muddy streets of the Pigalle quarter, the only light coming from between the homeless huddled around piles of burning trash in the alleyways, their emaciated forms hidden by layers of rags. The buildings were pressed tightly together, windows boarded over and wooden frames weak with rot. Every so often, we passed a building that had collapsed from an earthshake, its bones picked away for wood to burn until nothing remained but the foundation.
The air was filled with the smell of the harbor fish markets, but Pigalle itself smelled like too many people stuffed into too small a place. Human filth, waste, and desperation. It made me think about what the King had said to me on the beach. It made me think he was right.
“This isn’t a safe part of town to be in, especially after dark,” Chris muttered, eyeing the brothel on our left, shrieks of laughter coming from its open doors.
“Why do you think I didn’t come alone?” I whispered back.
“How do you know this La Voisin woman isn’t a charlatan like all the others?”
“I felt the magic, and even if I hadn’t, I saw what the potion did to Julian,” I said. “One minute, he was devastated about my mother’s pending retirement, and the next, he couldn’t have cared less. Impassioned one moment, pure cold logic the next.”
“And Sabine meant for you to drink it?”
Angry heat prickled along my skin, but I shrugged it off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right,” Chris said, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably as a group of dockworkers staggered by. “So it’s possible we could be walking toward Anushka herself?”
“I doubt it.” I laughed humorlessly, although that had been my original hope before I’d thought it through a little more. “Do you really think the woman who cursed the trolls to an eternity of captivity lives in the slums of Pigalle?”
“Good point,” he said. “So what are we doing here then?”
I bit the inside of my cheeks and said nothing, because I wasn’t precisely certain what I expected to gain from this mysterious witch. “A way to find Anushka.” A way to kill her.
“I think this is it,” Chris said, stopping in front of a short wooden building that was squeezed between two run-down boarding houses. Lines of laundry hung between windows of the taller buildings, dripping dirty water on the witch’s abode. The front of the building had no windows, only a narrow, unmarked door.
“Charming,” Chris muttered. I swallowed hard, knocked once, and opened the door.
It took a long moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior, and even longer for them to take in the chaos filling the room in front of us. The walls, what I could see of them, were jammed with shelves full of herbs, stones, and small statues. There were bottles containing creatures suspended in fluid, some a
nimals, some I didn’t care to identify. The tables and cupboards littering the center of room were piled nearly to the ceiling with papers, books, bolts of fabric, more herbs, crystals, and unlit lamps, turning the room into a maze that I didn’t look forward to navigating. A small dog ran around a stack of books, barked at us once, and disappeared again.
“Hello?” I called out. “Madame?”
No one responded, so I picked my way through the maze of clutter, Chris following behind. “Hello?” I called out again.
“I guess there isn’t anyone home,” Chris announced. “We should go – it smells like dog piss in here.”
“Souris likes to mark his territory,” a voice said from behind us. We both jumped. Chris collided with a stack of papers that proceeded to rain down around us as we took in the woman who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere.
“Are you the one they call La Voisin?” I asked.
“That depends,” the woman said, eyeing me up and down. “What do you want?”
What did I want? I stared at the woman in front of me, taking in her brilliant red dress and greying blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, debating what to say. There was a haughtiness about her not suited to Pigalle – something about the way she held her head that suggested she hadn’t always lived in poverty.
She tilted her head and looked at Chris, who was gathering up the papers behind me. “Pregnant?”
Chris jerked upright, banging his head against an open drawer. “No,” I said quickly. “Nothing like that.”
“What then? Spit it out, girl.”
There was an intensity about the woman that made me nervous, and I could all but feel the power in her words. This was the woman who had made the potion, I was certain of it.
“You gave my friend Sabine a potion. One intended to make a person fall out of love and into logic.” I watched her expectantly, but she turned away.
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